


Only Your Warmth (Can Erase My Chill)

by WhatIsAir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brunch Dates, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Neighbours AU, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve has a cat, also some angst, brief war/trauma flashbacks, mario kart shenanigans, steve is the resident Hot Neighbour and bucky has a crush, steve's a huge nerd, they both kinda have PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky presses the bell, and when the door opens he blinks because fuck, how could he’ve forgotten that the guy was cute? Blond hair, eyes bluer than the Mediterranean in the summer, and a shoulder-waist ratio to die for. He’s wearing an apron that has 'Finger-lickin’ Good!' splashed across the front, and Bucky couldn’t agree more.</p><p>“I, um. I’m out of eggs,” is the excuse Bucky’s mind comes up with, “Could I borrow some?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure, come in,” Hot Neighbour says, and Bucky rewards himself with a mental high-five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Your Warmth (Can Erase My Chill)

The smell of bacon wafts through the window, and Bucky sits up in bed, instantly _much_ more awake than he had been.

He yawns, grabs his phone off the nightstand. It’s 10:37am, and his neighbour’s already up and cooking. Bucky groans, because this is way too early on a Saturday morning, but then his stomach growls insistently, so he crawls out of bed and pads to the bathroom.

When he’s feeling distinctly more human and his hair no longer looks like a rat’s nest, he makes his way to the kitchen. The first thing he smells when he opens the fridge is the stench of sour milk and takeout gone bad. Eyes watering, he dumps the five-day-old noodles, pours the milk down the drain (it’d expired a week ago) and contemplates breakfast.

There are approximately zero things in the fridge fit for human consumption.

Bucky’s gaze falls on the lone egg sitting in the corner, and he shrugs. Might as well.

“Shit,” he says, a minute later, when he cracks the egg and realizes it’s frozen. The yolk’s congealed in a disgusting manner and Bucky sighs, sitting down at his kitchen table and mentally going through his list of takeout menu options.

Takeout on a Saturday morning seems rather drastic, however, so Bucky abstains.

Instead, he grabs a pair of socks and the nearest clean T-shirt he can find, and leaves his apartment. He walks the short walk down the corridor to his neighbour’s apartment, and raises a hand to the bell, feeling rather nervous. Because he’s only _seen_ his neighbour around, in elevators and around the block, but they’ve never actually spoken.

He presses the bell, and waits for all of two seconds before the door opens and Bucky blinks, disoriented because _fuck_ , how could he’ve forgotten that the guy was _cute_? Blond hair, eyes bluer than the Mediterranean in the summer, and a shoulder-waist ratio to _die_ for. He’s wearing an apron that has _Finger-lickin’ Good!_ splashed across the front, and Bucky couldn’t agree more.

Bucky licks his lips, words and the English language failing him. “Hi,” he eventually manages, inwardly cringing because _God_ , how ridiculous was he being?

Hot Neighbour doesn’t seem to mind. “Hi,” he says, smiling, like this is normal, like he opens his door to strangers on his doorstep every Saturday morning.

“I, um. I’m out of eggs,” is what Bucky’s mind supplies him with, “Could I – borrow some?”

“Yeah, sure, come in,” Hot Neighbour says, stepping back so Bucky can enter.

As soon as he steps into the apartment Bucky’s assaulted by the aroma of the bacon still sizzling in the pan, and his stomach growls with a vengeance.

“Hungry?” Hot Neighbour says, smirking when Bucky’s stomach rumbles in affirmation. “Take a seat,” he gestures at his breakfast bar and _wow_ , because dude has a _breakfast bar_.

Bucky sits, and thinks about where best to put his hands. Then he pulls himself together because since when did he become so socially awkward that he’s downgraded to thinking about socially acceptable hand-placement positions?

He keeps them on the bar top in the end, fingers laced together, and tries not to fidget as Hot Neighbour (and he’s _got_ to stop calling him that in his head) putters around, throwing seasoning into the pan and generally putting far too much effort into his weekend brunch.

“Bon apetit,” his neighbour says, dishing him out an omelette and bacon on the side.

Bucky takes a bite and moans appreciatively. He glances up to see his chef staring at him, an unreadable expression on his (pretty) face.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles around his second forkful of cheese-and-mushroom omelette, “’S really good.”

His neighbour raises an eyebrow, amused. He sits down opposite Bucky with his own plate, and after three minutes of silent eating, abruptly puts his cutlery down with a clatter and blurts out the non-sequitur – “Steve.”

“What?” Bucky opens his eyes, having closed them at some point to give the bacon its due respect ( _man_ , his neighbour can cook).

“Steve,” his neighbour says again, and now his cheeks are slightly flushed like he’s embarrassed, and it’s possibly the most endearing thing Bucky’s ever seen. “My name. Thought it’d be weird if we were sittin’ here, eating my food, not knowin’ each other’s names.”

“…James,” Bucky says after a pause, because his neighbour’s – _Steve_ ’s glancing at him inquiringly and he knows he’s supposed to return the favour. It’s only polite.

Steve just keeps staring at him, and Bucky frets, reaching out a hand to surreptitiously pat down his hair. It can’t be _that_ bad, can it?

There’s a small smile playing around the corners of Steve’s mouth. “C’mon, tell me your real name.”

Bucky bristles. “That _is_ my real name, asshole.”

Steve’s grin widens. “No, it’s not. At least not completely. Whatever it is, I won’t laugh.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Steve says solemnly, and crosses his heart with an expression so serious that Bucky kinda feels like asshole for not sharing.

He capitulates. “It’s Bucky,” he says, and immediately regrets it.

Steve’s grin threatens to rival the Cheshire cat’s, and when the effort it takes to hold his laughter in is too much, he dissolves into breathless giggles that Bucky r _efuses_ to find adorable, slumped as Steve is over his eggs and bacon, face buried in the crook of his arm, laughing so hard Bucky’s starting to find it infectious.

“Buck – Bucky,” Steve gasps when he regains his breath and (some of) his composure. “What the hell kinda name is Bucky?”

Bucky scowls down at the remains of his excellent brunch. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

Steve stifles another grin into his omelette. He chews, evidently stalling for time, swallows. “I’m sorry,” he eventually says, not sounding sorry at all, “It’s just – different, is all I’m sayin’.”

Steve puts his fork down, and Bucky eyes the bacon strips still on his plate.

“Have it,” Steve tells him.

Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. He pounces.

“Mm,” he says appreciatively, chewing, “You’re a saint, you know that? Saint Steve, is what they should call you.”

Steve smiles, and it’s bright, brighter than the sun, warming Bucky up from the inside until the cold he constantly feels is gone, completely washed out.

-

_“Count of three, I ask again,” the voice says in accented English, “Where are the rest gone?”_

_Bucky strains harder against the straps binding him to the metal table, eyes straining to make out something,_ anything _, under the blindfold. He keeps his mouth shut._

_“One…” the voice (presumably the leader) says. There’s a faint rustling, a crinkling of something that sounds not unlike paper. “Two… last chance, soldier.”_

_A hand grabs his chin roughly, and Bucky spits in the general direction of the man’s face. Judging from the indignant howl he hears, and the immediate, reeling blow to the underside of his jaw he receives, Bucky’s managed to hit the mark._

_The crinkling once again, and something thin and malleable is stretched across his mouth, his nose, covering most of his face._

_“Remember,” the voice says, right next to Bucky’s ear, “You ask for this.”_

_Then there’s pressure, and crushing weight pressing relentlessly, and Bucky opens his mouth instinctively to breathe (to scream) but he_ can’t _, he struggles against the straps, remembers his training, tries relaxing instead. But the pressure won’t let up and he’s choking, drowning, falling and landing with a sickening crash all at the same time and he can’t_ breathe _–_

“Fuck.”

Bucky wakes drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving with the remembered loss of oxygen. He sits up in bed and just concentrates on breathing for five minutes, until he feels less like he’s going to go into cardiac arrest any second.

He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, and gives up sleeping as a bad job after tossing and turning for another half an hour. He flops down onto the sofa and switches the TV on, turns it on mute and sits there contemplating the utter failure at life he is.

He debates whether or not to call Nat, but he vaguely remembers her telling him she has a show on first thing tomorrow morning, and Bucky has no intention of making himself more of a burden to everyone around him than he already is.

There’s a re-run of How I Met Your Mother that Bucky watches without watching for an hour or so (still on mute), when there’s suddenly a _thud_ from next door, followed by indignant yowling, and then another dull crash, followed by a loud, “ _Goddammit!_ ”

Bucky gets up quietly, makes his way out the door and down the corridor to Steve’s apartment. He tells himself it’s just because he’s concerned for Steve’s wellbeing that he’s doing this, and knocks on the door.

There’s more scuffling, and then Steve appears in the doorway, face flushed and hair awry. His T-shirt’s wrinkled and there are small tears near the neckline that Bucky chooses not to dwell on. “Bucky, hi,” Steve says, surprised, “What’s up?”

“Um. “Bucky clears his throat, because now that he’s here he realizes he actually has no fucking clue what his excuse for seeing Steve was meant to be. “I heard – sounds. Crashing. Thought I’d check to see if you’re okay?”

Steve stares at him like Bucky’s gone insane, and Bucky mentally backtracks. He takes in Steve’s flushed face, the mussed hair, the kinda ruined shirt, and –

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky says emphatically, “Are you having sex? Sorry, I can come back.”

He turns to go, face heating up and inwardly dying of embarrassment, when Steve says, “ _No,_ wait,” forcefully and reaches out to snag Bucky’s wrist, tugging him back into the apartment.

“Um,” Bucky says again, letting himself be pulled and finding himself face-to-chest with Steve. He thinks he can feel Steve’s heartbeat against his cheek, or maybe that’s just his imagination getting away with him, but he _definitely_ doesn’t imagine the hard muscle, the firmness of the chest pressed against him.

He steps out of Steve’s personal space, and is that _disappointment_ that flickers across Steve’s face? (He mentally shakes himself; he needs to get a fucking grip and stop seeing things where there aren’t any. Why would Steve want _him_?)

“Oh, who’s that?” Bucky says instead, peering round Steve’s shoulder and gesturing to the rail-thin tabby crouched under the coffee table, its green eyes gleaming out at him in the semi-darkness.

Steve scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Erm,” he says, eyes looking everywhere but Bucky, “Who’s what?”

Bucky points again, more insistently when Steve refuses to look under the coffee table. “She yours?”

Steve blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talking abou –”

“C’mere,” Bucky coos softly, stretching out a hand, and is gratified when the cat hurries to his side and rubs its head against his leg, purring.

Bucky glances up to see Steve looking half-stricken, half-amused.

“C’mon, tell us the name,” Bucky implores. He scratches the back of the tabby’s head and it hums contentedly, stretching out its neck: _more, please._

Steve sighs, relenting. “Mac. His name’s Mac. Found him outside a McDonald’s a couple days ago. I couldn’t just leave him, you know?”

“Aww.” Bucky clutches at his chest. “I don’t know if my heart can take this, Saint Steven.”

“Shut up.” Steve looks mutinous. He crosses his arms over his chest, T-shirt stretching tight, and Bucky’s mouth goes dry.

Bucky smirks. He reaches down, scoops Mac up and cradles him to his chest. “First brunch, now this. Why, Steve, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were flirtin’ with me.”

Steve’s looking at him with his mouth agape.

“What?” Bucky stretches out his free hand, pats the top of his head uncertainly. “Is it my hair?”

“No, it’s just –” and now Steve’s looking at him in awe, like Bucky’s the only thing that matters in this world (Bucky preens). “– I’ve just never been able to hold him before.” He gestures at Mac, now slumbering peacefully in the crook of Bucky’s arm.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, gesturing ruefully at his torn shirt. “That was when I tried to comb his fur. Don’t think he likes me very much. Why don’t you like me?” he says, rounding suddenly on Mac, who blinks sleepily up at him and yawns in his face.

Steve takes a slow, deliberate step back. “Your breath stinks,” he tells Mac, then – “His breath stinks,” he tells Bucky, who by this point has given up completely on maintaining his composure and is slumped against the doorframe, laughing at Steve’s predicament.

“Here,” he says, after he’s stopped, because he feels bad for the guy. It’s no easy thing being on the wrong side of a kitty yawn. He proffers the cat, who looks pretty comfortable where he is and has actually started snoring, little huffy exhales puffing against the skin on Bucky’s wrist.

Steve looks uncertain, but at Bucky’s urging gingerly takes Mac from him, holding him at an angle away from his body like it’s a bomb that needs diffusing.

Bucky chuckles. “Easy, champ. Just act natural, yeah?”

“But _how_?” Steve hisses, looking back at Mac to find him now awake and watching him sleepily through hooded eyes.

“Just –” Bucky pushes off from the door and crosses over to Steve, placing a hand on the crook of Steve’s elbow and easing it until Mac’s pressed to his chest.

Steve looks like he’s going to panic for a second, but then Mac rubs the tip of his nose against Steve’s shirt and nestles closer, letting out a contented rumble, and Bucky can _see_ the moment Steve’s heart melts.

“This is nice,” Steve whispers, and Bucky blinks, suddenly aware of how close they’re standing, their knees brushing each other’s, and Bucky thinks about taking his hand off Steve’s arm, because surely this is crossing a line?

But Steve doesn’t move, and neither does Bucky.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down at Mac (now snoring lightly again) and barely moving a muscle, not sure who he’s trying harder not to scare off: Steve or Mac.

They stay there for far too long, Bucky’s left side pressed against Steve’s right, Mac snoring happily between them, and Bucky _still_ doesn’t take his hand off Steve’s arm. On the (very tenuous) pretext of stroking Mac’s fur.

Eventually Steve shifts. “Cramp,” he says by way of explanation, and deposits the cat more fully into Bucky’s arms while he moves off to fill a glass from the tap. Bucky feels the loss on his left side rather keenly, and holds Mac tighter to his chest in a poor imitation of the heat that Steve radiated (dude’s like a furnace).

Steve moves back into view holding an empty bowl and a paper bag. “Hey, Buck,” he says, and no one’s ever called him that before but it’s _Steve_ so Bucky likes it (adores it, even). God, he’s hopeless. “You doin’ anything tonight?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, smirking slyly. “Why, what’re you offering?”

“Netflix and popcorn, maybe?” Steve says, holding up the paper bag like an offering, “Don’t think I’m gonna be able to fall asleep, to be perfectly honest.”

And Bucky clutches his chest dramatically and groans, because – “Steven, Steven,” he says despairingly, “What are we going to do with you? That was a _brilliant_ opportunity and you just let it go. I’m ashamed to be in the same room as yo –”

“Right, well,” Steve says, shaking the bag menacingly, “My food, my rules. Are we watching Jane the Virgin or not?”

Bucky hastily backtracks. “Course we are,” he says, and settles down onto Steve’s sofa with the cat. “I sure as hell hope you’re not one of those people who mix sweet ‘n salty in the same bowl, Steve.”

Steve snorts. “As if.”

Bucky grins, stroking a hand down the back of Mac’s head. “Looks like you’re in good hands, Mac.”

Mac purrs, opens an eye blearily and blinks up at him. He flicks his tail and turns his head towards the kitchen and Steve, then back at Bucky. He flicks his tail again.

“I can’t,” Bucky says, lowering his voice so only Mac can hear, and Mac gives him an unimpressed look. “Look, I really can’t. We’ve barely gotten to know each other as friends, and I don’t wanna risk it.”

Mac thumps his tail against the sofa seat and meows pointedly at him,

Bucky buries his head in his hands, wondering how his life had reached such a low point he’s actually contemplating relationship advice from a cat.

-

It happens gradually, and Bucky’s almost unaware of it happening until two months later, when there’s a knock at his apartment and he shouts, “Just a sec!” as he hurriedly throws a shirt on and kicks his dirty laundry under the sofa, jogging to the door and throwing it open, only to find himself face to face with not-Steve, that he realizes how close they’ve gotten.

After the cat mishap, he and Steve had started hanging out on a regular basis. Steve, as Bucky’s found out, is a part-time PE and art teacher at a local elementary school, and a full-time nerd.

(“You ready for tonight?” Bucky had asked two weeks ago, in reference to the plans they’d made to watch the new Star Wars film.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Steve had said, chewing his lip and looking unaccountable anxious.

Bucky stares. “Why not?”

“Um,” Steve says, staring down at the hands he’s twisted together in his lap. “What if it’s not good?” he says, finally.

“What do you –”

Steve holds up a hand. “I mean, what if everything is terrible and they botch up Kylo? What if someone dies? What if it’s Chewie, or, or –”

“Breathe, Steve,” Bucky’d said, concerned when Steve buries his head in his arms and doesn’t surface. “Chill. I get it, movie’s a big deal. Whaddya say we just stay in and watch Star Trek instead, take your mind off things?”

Steve had looked up at him gratefully, positively beaming when Bucky had gotten up and returned five minutes later with (unmixed) sweet and salty popcorn.

Halfway through the first movie, the back of Steve’s hand had brushed Bucky’s as they reached for the same bowl, and the warmth that spread through Bucky had absolutely nothing to do with the buttery popcorn and possibly everything to do with Steve.)

In short, he and Steve have probably spent far too much of these past weeks practically living in each other’s pockets. A quarter of Bucky’s things have found their way into Steve’s apartment, and approximately _all_ of Steve’s wine glasses seem to have found their way into his kitchen cabinet.

(“Steve, I – _hic_ – I gotta go,” Bucky had slurred the other night, head propped against Steve’s shoulder, Mac curled on his lap, as the three of them had sat watching the end credits of the first _Harry Potter_ roll.

“Sch – _stay_ ,” Steve had murmured, and Bucky had opened his mouth to protest, except then Steve had unfairly utilized his cat-free-hands advantage, and placed a hand on Bucky’s knee.

Bucky had stayed, and they’d played a drinking game (which, in hindsight, had been a terrible idea).

“Take a shot whenever Mac – _hic_ – whenever he snores,” Bucky had declared, lining up the glasses on Steve’s immaculate coffee table.

They were on the floor within ten minutes, with something amounting to seventeen shots between them.

“Your cat’s a men – menace,” Bucky had groaned, flat on his back and contemplating the sworls in the pattern of Steve’s beige ceiling.

Steve had giggled, slumping down to lie beside Bucky on the floor (and how had they ended up on the floor?), wriggling until his head was awkwardly pillowed on the join between Bucky’s chest and shoulder (his left shoulder).

Bucky had flinched, sitting up so quickly he over-balanced and ending up slamming into the side of the coffee table.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he’d hissed, rubbing at his cheek and willing away the fathom throbbing in his shoulder. He’d gotten to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and stumbled to the door.

“Buck, wait,” Steve had said, urgent and upset.

“’S late,” Bucky had muttered, hand on the door. “G’night, Steve.”)

“You’re not Steve,” he blurts now, staring at the not-Steve on his doorstep and inwardly wincing at how rude he sounds, but it’s been 48 hours since he last saw him, which is _far too long_ in Bucky’s opinion (shut up, their relationship isn’t codependent).

The man outside his apartment looks, if anything, amused. “Bucky, I take it?”

Bucky tilts his head to the side, squinting suspiciously at the stranger. “I could be. Depends.”

“Sam,” Not-Steve says, sticking out a hand and Bucky cautiously takes. “Sam Wilson.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, as realization hits him. He steps aside and waves him in. “Sam. You’re Steve’s –”

“Colleague, yeah,” Sam says, ambling in and sitting himself down on Bucky’s sofa. Not that Bucky minds, per se, but he’s perfectly aware he hasn’t done his laundry in two weeks and they’re currently gathering dust under his sofa. He eyes Sam’s right foot nervously, hoping he doesn’t realize it’s dangerously close to encountering three-day-old boxer shorts.

“So, what brings you here?” Bucky says, perching on the armrest and surreptitiously nudging the pile further under the sofa.

“Steve’s goin’ away for a little while,” Sam starts, and Bucky’s stomach sinks. “He wanted to tell you this morning, but he had a flight to catch and he didn’t think you’d appreciate being woken up at 2am.”

“Okay,” Bucky says woodenly, wondering why he feels so suddenly bereft. He and Steve are just friends, and they haven’t known each other that long. There’s no reason he should feel so – _betrayed_ , is the word his mind supplies him with – that Steve had just left without so much as a goodbye. _He_ would’ve woken Steve up, hell, he’s woken Steve up at 3am for lesser things (read: borrowing lube to jerk off to because he’d run out).

“Hey, man, you doing okay?” Sam asks, looking over him with concern, “You look a little pale.”

“Fine,” Bucky says shortly, and stands so that Sam’ll know the interview’s over.

Sam, however, either isn’t able to take a hint or doesn’t want to, because his ass stays glued to Bucky’s sofa.

“Look, man,” Sam says, when Bucky keeps hovering uncertainly, “Steve’s – he’s been goin’ through a rough patch lately, and he says you’ve helped him with it. A lot.”

Bucky blinks, because when had Steve ever been anything but almost _annoyingly_ filled with cheer? “I have?”

Sam nods. “More than you know,” he says, then, softly, almost to himself, “Much more.” He stands, then. “He just needs some space. Oh, and he wants to know if you can look after the cat for him.”

“Sure, sure,” Bucky says, and almost startles in surprise when Sam places a pair of keys on the coffee table. “Are you sure Steve won’t –”

“Trust me,” Sam says, “It’s the last thing Steve’ll mind,” and sees himself out of Bucky’s apartment, leaving him to wonder what the hell Sam could’ve meant by that.

-

**_2 months later_ **

“Mac, no, _stay still!_ ” Bucky groans, as Mac’s tail flicks irritably and soaks the front of his shirt.

He’s standing at his bathroom sink, up to his elbows in water and trying to stop Steve’s slippery cat from escaping.

“Look, son,” Bucky says sternly, when Mac wriggles in his grasp and jabs an unfriendly paw at the center of his chest. “It’s not my fault you decided to sneak out last night and come back looker blacker than coal. Seriously, what’ve you been doing, crawling around in the sewers? Actually, don’t answer that, I don’t wanna know.”

Mac meows pitifully at him, and gives him a light scratch on the forearm when he tries to lower him into the water.

Bucky’s managed to get Mac’s front paws submerged when the doorbell rings and he jumps. Mac seizes his chance, slipping from Bucky’s arms like an eel and rushing out the bathroom door.

“Dammit,” Bucky sighs, wiping his hands on a towel. He comes out to find Mac cowering under the kitchen table, and rolls his eyes. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says menacingly, and opens the door to find –

“Steve,” Bucky says, delighted and mortified and a fucking mess all at once. He grimaces as he remembers the wet shirt clinging to him, his no-doubt fucked up hair.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, and maybe it’s Bucky’s imagination, because he could’ve sworn Steve’s gaze drifted down his torso, lingering on his chest, before snapping back up almost guiltily to meet his gaze.

“I was just washing Mac,” Bucky says, and gestures at his shirt by way of explanation.

Steve doesn’t say anything and he fidgets, trying to regain equilibrium, so he squints at Steve, says jokingly, “Hey, is it me, or did you _grow_ more muscles? Like, how’s it possible to –”

Then Steve steps into his personal space, presses a bruising kiss to Bucky’s lips and his brain shuts down, his mouth on autopilot as he kisses back, his arm around Steve’s waist and Steve’s around his, parentheses bracketing their bodies and Bucky wishes breathing was a mandatory part of survival, because he could happily _stay_ like this for the rest of his life.

“Been wanting to do that since the first time you came over, _God_ ,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s mouth, one hand fisted in the collar of Bucky’s shirt like he can’t bear to let him go.

Bucky smirks, trying his best not to look like his heart’s beating so fast he can feel it in his throat. “You been eyein’ my ass since day one, Rogers?”

“Shut up,” Steve says, and kisses him until he does.

-

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bucky asks later, when they’re lying under Bucky’s sheets, legs tangled together, Steve’s arm a comforting weight across his stomach.

Steve noses at the back of Bucky’s neck. “About what?”

“You know,” Bucky says, arching his back and not-so-subtly pushing back into Steve’s touch. “About the raging boner you’ve had for me this whole time.”

Steve mumbles something into his skin and Bucky frowns, turning in Steve’s arms to face him. “What’d you say?”

“I said,” Steve says, not meeting Bucky’s gaze. “That I didn’t want you to know ‘bout all my shit.”

Bucky stares at him incredulously. “Steve,” he says. Steve stares at a spot high above Bucky’s shoulder. “ _Steve_ , look at me,” he says again, and Steve does.

“Look at this,” he says, indicating his mangled shoulder, at the ropey scars stretching from his shoulder down to his elbow. “You think you’re the only one with a shit fuckin’ _ton_ of baggage?”

“No, it’s not that,” Steve says, sounding pained. He does, however, press a gentle kiss to the scars, as if in apology for what’s been done to Bucky. “It’s just that I –”

“That you _what_ , Steve?” Bucky asks quietly, “Have trust issues? Kinda figured that one out for myself.”

Steve shakes his head. “I –”

There’s an explosion from outside, and Bucky rolls to cover Steve the same moment Steve moves to do the same. They end up colliding, falling to the floor in a tangled heap and bringing the sheets down with them, but Bucky doesn’t have time to care because the first thing they need to do is get away from the windows and find cover –

And Bucky shudders, remembering the IED and the relentless, all-encompassing pain, and a world dissolved in fire. He can’t let that happen again he _can’t_ , especially now that Steve –

“Buck – _Bucky_ ,” Steve’s saying, and Bucky blinks.

They’re both sprawled on the bedroom floor, and Steve’s hands are on his face. “Remember what today is?”

The explosion comes again, this time followed by a tumultuous cheer, and the tightness in Bucky’s chest loosens. “Fourth of fuckin’ July.”

There’s a rueful grin on Steve’s face as he straightens and offers a hand to Bucky, who lets himself be pulled up.

“You, too, huh?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow when Steve flushes. “When were you gonna tell me you served, Sergeant?”

“Actually, it’s,” Steve says, face illuminated by the red-blue streaks of fireworks from the streets, “It’s Captain.”

An unapologetic smirk curls Bucky’s lips. “Alright, then. If you say so, _Captain_.”

Steve flushes brighter than the fireworks display outside.

“C’mon, Cap’n,” Bucky grins (oh, he’s going to have so much _fun_ with this), as he heads for his bathroom, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

-

**_6 months later_ **

“Right, I said, take a fucking _right_!” Sam shouts, groaning when Steve proceeds to do exactly the opposite and ends up steering Luigi off the Rainbow Bridge entirely.

“Maybe you should drive for a while,” Steve says, relinquishing the Wii remote, and Sam practically snatches it from him.

“You know,” Nat says, from her perch on the kitchen island, where she’s busy trying to hack Steve’s wifi password, “For someone who has a driver’s license and drives a bike on a daily basis, you really _suck_ at Mario Kart, Rogers.”

“YES!” Bucky shouts, fist-pumping the air, as Princess Peach clears her third lap and he wins the game.

Sam groans, letting his Wii remote drop as he buries his head in his hands.

“C’mon, Wilson, you promised,” Bucky says, smirking. “So is pizza on you or what?”

“Fine, fine,” Sam grumbles, pulling out his phone and clicking the pizza delivery app. “You’re eating me out of house and home, Barnes, I swear to God.”

The pizza arrives (five pizzas because Steve wants _two;_ dude’s a monster) and midway through the meal Bucky glances up to see Steve with a smear of barbecue sauce on his chin, so he reaches across the table and swipes it off with his thumb, and Steve looks at him with such a happy, c _ontent_ grin that Bucky finds himself blurting –

“Wanna marry me?” at the same time Steve says, “Want more dip?”

– and the whole table freezes in a tableau of shock (horror and mortification for Bucky, who seriously cannot _believe_ his mouth let that happen, what the _fuck_ ).

Sam and Nat excuse themselves from the table and are gone within five seconds (fucking traitors), disappearing to play Mario Kart at the loudest possible volume in the next room over, which Bucky appreciates, because at least if Steve ends up blowing his top, it’ll be relatively discreet.

Steve glances at him over the top of his half-eaten pizza. “Listen, Buck –”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says shortly, because he knows _exactly_ how this is going to play out: Steve looking at him with sympathy (maybe pity), Steve politely declining the offer and then Steve politely excusing himself from his life because he doesn’t want anything to do with Bucky, with his pathetic attempts at passing for a normal human being.

“Buck, that’s not gonna happen,” Steve says firmly, and _oh God_ , had Bucky been talking _out loud_?

Steve glances at him worriedly. “You know you’re still doing it, right?”

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” Bucky mutters, looking sullenly at his pizza and wishing he could merge by osmosis with his kitchen floor.

“Buck, will you just stop gettin’ ahead of yourself and let me say what I gotta say?”

Bucky slumps back in his chair and waits for Steve to tell him to get out, that he’s had enough of Bucky’s crap.

“You know why I left all those months ago?” Steve asks instead, and Bucky, taken by surprise, shakes his head.

“I had to fly to D.C. for a funeral,” Steve says, “Her name was Peggy, we were engaged.”

There’s a knife slowly, gently easing its way into Bucky’s gut. He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“Cancer,” Steve says, voice hollow and eyes faraway. “She was sick for five months. I tried to stay with her, but the hospital wouldn’t take any visitors.” His voice trembles; he clears his throat. “I left because I knew if I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to stay away from you and I didn’t – didn’t wanna do that when Peggy. When she –”

He stops, takes a deep, shaky breath. Bucky pushes his chair back, makes his way to Steve’s side and pulls him close. Steve goes, burying his face in Bucky’s side.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again, because once doesn’t seem enough. (Nothing he ever does seems to be enough.)

Steve pulls back to look up at him. “I guess what I was trying to say is that I – I made my choice six months ago when I came back from D.C. I made my choice the night you woke up screaming and told me to get out while I still could, and I’m gonna make the same choice for the rest of my life if you’ll let me.”

Bucky stares down at him, stunned. “Rogers,” he says faintly, “You coulda told me you were gonna say that. Now I feel like I’m gonna have to read off a fuckin’ script or something.”

Steve smirks. “Too much?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That was fuckin’ beautiful and you know it. You could’ve just said yes. Saved me all this self-esteem lowering.”

Steve snags a hand in the collar of Bucky’s shirt, pulls him down and leans in close. “Yes,” he says, and they’re so close Bucky’s lips move with his, his mouth shaping the same word, the same promise. Bucky closes his eyes (he can’t quite believe Steve said y _es_ to his half-assed proposal, if it can even be called that) and they kiss.

-

“Motherfucker,” Sam says, ten minutes later, when he walks into Bucky’s kitchen, Wii remote clutched in hand, and is confronted with a sight he never wanted (or needed) to see in his entire life.

Their pizza boxes are scattered on the floor, evidently pushed aside in great hurry. Bucky’s sat on the table, legs bracketing Steve’s hips, and their mouths are glued together even as their hands make quick work of each other’s belt buckles, because (and Sam will never in his whole life be able to thank God enough for this) they’ve only just started taking off their pants.

Sam shudders to think what might’ve happened if he’d decided he needed a glass of water a couple minutes later than this.

“Sam,” Steve detaches himself from Bucky’s lips to say; he sounds surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

“You invited me here, remember?” Sam says, and grabs a glass before it’s too late. “Me and Nat’re in the living room.”

“Oh.” Bucky peers at Sam from behind Steve’s shoulder. “Right, we’d forgotten. Hi, Sam.”

Sam fills the glass with water and hesitates in the doorway, wondering if common courtesy dictated that he and Nat leave. (He really doesn’t want to, though, because he’s on a winning streak: it’s currently 7 to his Toad and 2 to Nat’s Waluigi, although he suspects that’s just because Nat’s letting him win.)

“You and Nat can stay, if you want,” Steve throws over his shoulder. He’s abandoned his pants and is now attacking Bucky’s neck with fervour, sucking on a particular spot that has Bucky throwing his head back and moaning.

Steve smirks against the skin of Bucky’s neck and sucks harder, one hand snaking behind Bucky to cup his –

“Nat and I’ll come back some other time,” Sam says, pointedly not staring at the kitchen table. He blindly places the glass in the sink (he misses and it spills, soaking the counter), and turns to leave when a thought occurs to him.

“Yo, Steve, I’m your best man, right?” he asks, and when Steve doesn’t answer he turns, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Because in the span of half a minute Steve and Bucky have managed to rid themselves of their pants and Steve’s mouth is currently occupied with Bucky’s dick and Bucky’s carded a hand through Steve’s hair and is groaning with abandon and Sam really, _really_ wishes he hadn’t turned around.

“Hnngh,” he manages, and escapes while the two of them are… distracted, to put it lightly.

He really better be Steve’s best man, cause if he’s not, well. Steve Rogers had better watch himself, because there’s no way in hell Sam’s ever going to let him live this down.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading y'all leave a comment if you liked it (:
> 
> and with less than 2 weeks to go till ca:cw i'm slowly losing my grasp on reality/sanity and spiraling deeper and deeper into denial bc i have a feelings something terrible's gonna happen 
> 
> i need to get my life together but yeah this is probably my first AU so lemme know what you thought and i'll write more :3


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